


Gravity

by siegeinterrupted (smasharchived)



Category: Tom Clancy's Rainbow Six (Video Games)
Genre: Fluff, Hopeless Boyfriends, Kissing, M/M, Minor Angst, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-11
Updated: 2019-07-11
Packaged: 2020-06-26 10:12:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19766053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smasharchived/pseuds/siegeinterrupted
Summary: They've been apart for a while, now. Forced in different directions by a task force that always demands their love first, refusing to be the side piece no matter how much Lion aches for his boyfriend.But on a cold, wintry afternoon, one moment, briefly suspended in time, is enough to sooth the ache. Because these are the moments they live for.---------------------------------------------------Written for the Naughty, or Nice prompt challenge on Tumblr (run by FuckYeahRainbowSix.Tumblr.Com). Prompt: Under The Fir Tree(Repost & Edited.)





	Gravity

**Author's Note:**

> .  
> ****************  
> Repost Note  
> ****************  
> .  
> Several months ago I reached a very dark place after a combination of medical issues, work issues and fandom drama that'd finally climaxed. In response to a seemingly endless pile of shit, I nuked all my stories from AO3 in the hopes of washing my hands of it all.
> 
> Since then I've realised that writing and posting my works was and is a fundamental part of who I am, and in tearing them down I have ironically hurt myself more. So on the advice of people very special to me, I'm returning to AO3 with an apology and the works I deleted. Over the next few weeks I'll be reposting everything to this account and I hope that anyone who still enjoys my writing enough to put up with me, can enjoy these stories again.
> 
> For this particular fic, I chose to do a bit of editing before reposting. If you've read the fic before, you might notice the differences. Some dialogue was tweaked to bring Lion and Thatcher into line with how I see them now, and the ending was re-written to have a different feel to it. I'm not sure if it's better but it's what I was feeling. I hope that's alright.
> 
> Thank you ❤.  
> .  
> ****************  
> Original Note  
> ****************  
> .  
> This is a short little piece I started a while ago, that I thought I'd have a crack at finishing. The prompt 'Under The Fir Tree' is only vaguely followed, because in all honesty I'm more of a Grinch than an elf. But I thought I'd share this little shot of OTP fluff, and thank everyone who's followed and supported me this far ❤.
> 
> There is a short sequel intended for this drabble, which I'm hoping to get a chance to write before Christmas. Stay tuned, if you're interested.
> 
> \--- French Translations ---
> 
> Baise moi = Fuck me

* * *

**x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x**

* * *

One second and he’s on the ridge, combat boots sinking into mud as he trudges after the small cluster of SAS, tired eyes tracking the leading silhouette with a raw sense of longing.

The next and his foot skates across rock, refusing to find purchase.

It happens so fast that he doesn’t have time to catch himself - his legs disappearing from under him and his world skewing sideways. Grey skies and frozen fir trees rotate at an unnatural angle as he falls, tumbling straight over the steep hill.

Lion barely makes a noise when his shoulder crashes into the ground, shock dulling the pain that lances through to his collarbone. Sticks and stones stab past the soaked fabric of his fatigues as he starts to gain momentum, leaving behind scrapes, bruises and growing patches of red as he’s sliding down the slope. Ferns and shrubs flashing in and out of sight for what feels like and age before he finally skids the last few metres on his stomach, wet leaves slapping him in the face.

He comes to a stop at the bottom of the ridge.

‘ _Baise moi_ …’ Lion groans heavily, licking at lips smeared with blood.

Pushing himself up on trembling arms, hands biting into soil hard enough that dirt packs beneath his nails, Lion rolls gingerly onto his back, grimacing at the feeling of water lapping against his skin. It’s been raining nonstop over the past few days, the poor weather only letting up for an hour or so at a time. Refusing to give any of them a reprieve in the build up to the holidays. He’s sick of it, just like he’s sick of this training exercise and the fact that their team lead won’t even fucking look at him anymore-

_Breathe, Olivier._

Lion inhales deeply, closing his eyes.

A sense of peace washes over him in the darkness in spite of the droplets beginning to pepper his nose, soft, yet sharp with cold.

_He hates this._

_Only puts up with it because he somehow loves **him** more-_

Above him, the rain stops

It’s strange, because Lion can still hear steady _pitter-pattering_ of droplets. Can hear them splattering his gear as the misty curtain draping itself over the forest becomes a heavy shower.

Cracking an eyelid, Lion suddenly feels his heart skip a beat.

_Thatcher._

Crouched by his head, the older man is watching him with that dark gaze of his, brow furrowing in way that Lion has learned to read as concern. The mess of greying, brown hair that Lion loves to run his fingers through is plastered against Thatcher’s forehead, trickles of water dribbling down from his hairline and eventually getting lost in his stubble.

They’ve all been getting their arses kicked out here.

Lion knows that.

(Tries to be understanding because of it.)

Shadows of exhaustion flit in the Thatcher’s expression, and then he rests his rifle on his knee, reaching for Lion with a gloved hand. Thatcher has always had a reputation for being gruff – the older man having sculpted himself in the image of a cynical bastard for years, now. But anyone who knew him well enough also knew that there was a soft spot buried underneath that tough exterior for the people he cared about and suddenly that same hand is cupping Lion’s chin – the younger man shivering slightly when Thatcher’s thumb wipes away the blood still welling on Lion’s lower lip.

Sweet, and gentle.

Lion has been pining for this touch.

Starved of it since both Trace and Cohen shipped out to deal with a situation in Tampa, leaving Thatcher to singlehandedly run the task force in their absence.

A job that the older man has never enjoyed.

(Thatcher always preferred getting his hands dirty, to sitting behind a desk.)

Three weeks in and the cracks were starting to show. Worse, they were starting to show to more than just the men and women who knew Mike Baker well enough to know him beyond the unshakeable Queen and country career soldier, dedicated to his duty.

The stress has been slowly unravelling a man who’s always thrived under it.

For that reason, Lion’s tried to suck it up and deal with it.

Really, he has.

Yet finally having Thatcher back, having him _there_ – sparks annoyance, as Lion lies at his feet in the dirt. Filthy, and cold, and aching.

‘Perhaps next time you could tell me that I need to throw myself off a cliff to get your attention, hm?’ The CBRN specialist rasps in the quiet, tone stilted, and maybe a little angry. ‘Then I would only have a sore back instead of a sore heart from a boyfriend who forgets I exist-‘

Above him and the older man tenses, features strained. Lion sets his jaw against the wave of guilt that hits him, half expecting, half _wanting_ , to be growled at. But instead Thatcher heaves a sigh, sounding far too defeated. ‘Get up and out of the mud, Flament.’

It’s impossible not to be affected by that – _his_ Thatcher normally an immovable rock, and Lion kisses the thumb still hovering by his lips, trying to take the sting out of what he grumbles next.

‘ _Non_.’

There’s a moment of silence, and then Thatcher gives him a _look_. ‘Don’t you start-’

‘What?’ Lion says, feigning apathy. ‘Maybe I like it here. It’s cold, and lonely. Like my soul-‘

‘Got one of those?’

‘Careful, Baker,’ playing the game, Lion pulls a face – refusing to react when Thatcher subconsciously leans in, shielding him as the wind picks up, blowing water at them from a new angle. ‘Or Trace might hear about this blue-on-blue, no?’

Thatcher cocks an eyebrow, the beginnings of a smirk tugging at his mouth. These days and what was Thatcher’s, was Lion’s, including CTU. ‘Defecting, are we?’

‘Mm,’ Lion hums the noise – his grazed palm pressing against the other man’s chest, searching for the steady beat. ‘Maybe I’ll change my mind, _mon amour_ \- if you kiss it better...’

‘… That right?’ Comes the rumbling reply – Thatcher pushing into his space until their noses brush together. Lion can smell sweat and leather, under the heady scent of fresh rain, and it’s familiar. It’s Thatcher, even if it’s not a cologne, and Lion tilts his head – daring the man to try. Moaning softly when he does. Thatcher crushes their lips together, low laugh echoing in his throat when Lion nips at him, trying to press for more. ‘Someone’s easy…’

‘I thought you said that was one of my perks?’ Lion murmurs.

Thatcher rakes his fingers through Lion’s hair, territorial. ‘It is.’

Lion would be lying through his teeth, if he said his cock didn’t twitch.

But he doesn’t get a chance to act on it.

On the ridge, there’s movement – a dark shape shuttering into view, black fatigues rippling in the growing storm. Lion catches sight of him the same time Thatcher does – the two of them wired to notice even the slightest change in detail.

‘Oi,’ the figure calls out, voice projecting over the gale. Smoke, with his unmistakable accent. Lion feels like Thatcher’s teammate is trying to rub salt into his wound, when he props one foot up on the same stone Lion tripped on. ‘Are you lot done down there?’

Thatcher raises the hand that’d been knotting in Lion’s hair seconds ago, signalling the universal ‘OK’. ‘Keep your shirt on. We’ll be up in a minute.’

‘Too bloody right you will,’ Smoke barks back, joking in his own acerbic way. As the second oldest in Thatcher’s unit, he’d spent enough time with Thatcher to know where the line was. ‘Cowden’s been pissing in my ear about his bollocks getting frostbite.’

‘Go and give his lads a snuggle, then, if you’re that worried.’

‘Fuck off…’

Already digging an arm under Lion to lever him out of the mud, Thatcher starts to heave him upright – grunting with effort. Lion hisses when deeply bruised muscles groan in protest, struggling to help – his own limbs not cooperating. He was going to feel this in the morning.

‘Haven’t buggered yourself, have you?’

The question is loud in Lion’s ear. Thatcher keeps one broad arm twined around Lion’s heaving ribcage, second-guessing his assumption that Lion hadn't hurt himself too badly. Frown lines deepening at the clear display of pain. These days and Thatcher is the first person Lion goes to if there’s something wrong, his deep sense of pride and slightly masochistic desire for penance fading into silence with the promise that someone would hold him like this.

‘ _Non_ …’ Lion grunts through ragged breaths, gripping onto the older man’s shoulder and using it for support. There aren’t any broken bones or sprains. Just a deflated ego, and lingering warmth where those soft lips had touched. ‘…That’s your job, _oui_?’

There’s a pause.

Thatcher tugs him closer, body heat radiating through wet clothing, his thumb rubbing delicate circles into Lion’s aching skin. It always seems to give Thatcher a rush, when Lion reminds him just how _special_ he is, and now isn’t any different – gooseflesh rising on Lion's forearms as hot breath tickles the back of his neck, Thatcher’s hands gripping onto him tighter and tighter. Promising not to let go. ‘Make it up the hill on your own,’ the older man says, gravelly baritone doing more for Lion than any other voice ever had. ‘And maybe your wrist gets a rest tonight.’

 _Of course_.

‘Why do you always make me work for it?’ Lion asks with a sigh, question rhetorical. Words not nearly as excited as they should be as he stares at the veritable mountain high above him. ‘…This is going to hurt, isn’t it?’

‘Probably, eh?’ Thatcher pats his abdomen gently in rare show of sympathy, knowing it’s not going to be pleasant, and not about to coddle him. ‘Come on.’

‘ _La connerie_ …’

It takes them a few painful moments to get him on his feet, then a few painful more to stagger back up the ridge.

Smoke is there to pull him over the top – the stocky middleweight waiting for them both with his hands on his hips, before they get close enough that the noticeable tremble in Lion’s body makes the Brit move. It’s always amazed Lion, how much of an anchor James Porter really is – the chemical weapon specialist's biceps bulging in the sodden material of his long-sleeved uniform as he nearly lifts Lion right out of his boots. ‘Christ, Flament. I was wondering why Mike was giving you a bloody cuddle,’ Smoke says, his lack of personal boundaries making him incredibly intimidating despite him being the shortest man there, when he steps right into Lion’s space. After analysing him with eyes that were a little too sharp, Smoke turns – yelling. ‘Oi, Cowden-‘

‘ _Non_ ,’ Lion quickly tries to interrupt, slightly desperate. Understanding what's coming. ‘Don’t-‘

_Too late._

_He doesn't want to let go._

It takes barely a second for the hulking soldier to appear, Sledge moving like a lithe cat through the downpour – a sight that was rather off-putting, for a man of his size. Glancing between the three of them, the Scotsman, who Weiss often said was about as bright as a shattered lightbulb, crosses the distance seperating them in three quick strides, focus gravitating to Lion. ‘Aye, you’re lookin’ a wee bit peaky there, lad.’

‘How many times do I have to-‘ Lion starts to say, ire rising – then stuttering, at the feeling of Thatcher abruptly pulling away from him. Lion had guessed this might be his fate when Smoke had chosen to linger - had figured that one of Thatcher's boys would want to do the heavy-lifting, instead of the older man. But that doesn’t stop the drop in his gut – doesn’t help the resigned pit that settles there, as Sledge takes the Thatcher's place. Taller, and heavier, and far more solid.

But not _his_.

(Lion's only half right.)

(Not realising Thatcher has left him in the hands he trusts as the most capable.)

‘You are three years older than me, Cowden,’ the CBRN specialist grumbles, pretending it doesn't matter. Pretending it doesn't matter and that he's just a grouchy, arrogant arsehole that doesn't appreciate being called a lad by someone his own age.

‘Well, at least he can still count…’ Smoke says, clapping Lion on the shoulder with a surprising amount of care - the action earning an irritated frown from Thatcher. ‘Now can we get going, before my cock turns into a sodding cocksicle-‘

Thatcher never takes he's eyes of Lion, even as he shakes his head. ‘Fookin’ hell…’

Lion stubbornly refuses to meet his gaze, instead letting his thoughts drift to putting one foot in front of the other as Cowden helps nudge him forwards.

The way home is much further than he remembers it being.

Much more painful.

(Lion has a limp.)

Nobody says anything about the snail’s pace they have to walk, despite being pelted by sleet.

Keeping close to the weakest link, all the way back to the base.

(Like they always do.)

And if Thatcher spends most of his time hovering too close, constantly looking back to check on _his_ Lion - the two men he's served the longest with know better than to mention it.

Because they’re family.

(Even if Lion doesn’t know it yet.)

* * *

**x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x**

* * *


End file.
